ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Well, I said this would only come later, but while writing this one, I couldn't resist—so here's the chapter. And I wonder why they took that path, huh? 🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔
Chapter 40: Alliance of Blood and Gold
POV: Lord Tywin Lannister (302 AC)
The silence in the main solar of Casterly Rock was disturbed only by the soft crackling of embers in the stone fireplace. Upon the heavy mahogany table lay the scroll sent from King's Landing. I had already read and reread those lines dozens of times, and with each reading, the sense of incredulity at such sheer Southern stupidity only solidified in my mind.
The letter, sealed with the dark wax of the Iron Throne and signed by Queen Regent Catelyn Tully, was a complete political heresy. Accusing me of high treason, complicity in regicide, and demanding that I, the Lord of the West, present myself in the capital to be judged for absurd crimes surpassed the limits of the acceptable. My spies in King's Landing had already reported to me that Hoster Tully's daughter was proving to be an extremely impressionable woman, consumed by a galloping paranoia and a blind fanaticism for the Faith of the Seven. But I never imagined that her madness would lead her to voluntarily initiate a war against the Empire of the North. That was a glorified suicide. A foolishness that would cost an incomprehensibly expensive price for the Riverlands and for the Southern crown.
"Well, look at that..." a drawling and sarcastic voice broke the silence of the room.
I looked toward the entrance and saw the figure of the hideous dwarf whom, by a cruel joke of the gods, I was forced to call a son. Tyrion walked into the solar with a sly smile on his lips.
"Dear father, you were plotting to take the Iron Throne entirely for our lineage and didn't even bother to invite us to the celebration banquet? I am deeply hurt."
"Do not be a fool, dwarf," I replied with my usual coldness, not taking my eyes off the scroll.
Behind him, Jaime entered the solar. The short and carefree laugh of my eldest son only served to leave me even more irritated. Jaime maintained his arrogant warrior posture, refusing point-blank to assume the responsibilities that his blood demanded, including my exhausting desire for him to finally marry a woman worthy of a great house to secure the succession of the West. The old affair he had maintained with Cersei in the past was dead and buried from the moment she married in the North under runic laws, but his stubbornness in remaining single continued to be a stain on my dynastic plans.
My brother, Kevan Lannister, approached the table with a grave expression.
"So, what shall we do, brother?" Kevan asked, pointing to the royal document. "Queen Tully has denounced us before the entire Southern realm. She demands your head and the immediate surrender of our borders. If we do not respond, the forces loyal to the crown will march."
I raised my gaze, fixing it upon the men before me.
"Yes... I will go to King's Landing, brother," I declared surgically.
The silence instantly hovered over the solar. Tyrion arched an eyebrow, while Jaime straightened his posture, abandoning his previous jocular tone.
"Call the banners of the West immediately, Kevan. Mobilize every man, every horse, and every piece of armor that our vaults of gold are capable of sustaining," I commanded, rising from my chair. "Prepare our supply lines. Jaime, you will lead the entirety of our military forces in this campaign."
Jaime took a step forward, his expression becoming stern and focused. At least to lead men and wield steel with mastery, that idiot was good for something.
"If we march toward the capital by land, it will be extremely difficult to cross the borders of the Reach quickly, father," Jaime analyzed, crossing his arms. "Their defensive lines could delay us for weeks before we can reach the crownlands."
"Idiot... the Reach is also allied to the Empire of the North through matrimonial blood ties," I replied with disdain. "But we will not march through the Tyrells' lands."
The eyes of Kevan and my sons locked onto me in search of answers.
"We will march directly toward the Riverlands," I announced, pointing to the strategic map on the table. "Let us see if Queen Catelyn will continue to make insane demands and keep Ned Stark locked in a dark dungeon when her own homeland is burning in flames under the weight of our blades."
Tyrion took a step forward, his mismatched eyes gleaming with a genuine doubt.
"And why are the Northmen marching by land through the Neck, father?" the dwarf questioned, thoughtfully. "Wouldn't it be infinitely wiser and faster for Emperor Arawyn to mobilize his invincible and dreaded runic war fleet to bomb King's Landing directly from the sea? They could turn the Red Keep into pebbles before the Southern armies could even organize themselves."
I looked at Tyrion with a cold flash of recognition. That was, without a doubt, a good military strategy. The dwarf was not wrong in his logical analysis of conventional warfare.
"That would be the ideal strategy, Tyrion," I continued, sitting back down. "If it were the young King Robb Stark acting in an isolated and independent manner, he would certainly use his ships for a swift naval blockade. But Robb, although he carries the title of King Above the Neck, serves a higher authority on the Winter Throne. And Emperor Arawyn does not want to just give a quick lesson or a diplomatic warning to the forces of the South. That time passed long ago."
I narrowed my eyes, remembering the destructive power that the runic industries of the North possessed.
"The North is not descending to the South to give a warning, dwarf. They are marching to massacre their enemies and leave an indelible memory of dread in the mind of any Southerner who dares to even contemplate the heresy of challenging the Empire over the next hundred years. And we will ensure that the gold of Casterly Rock will march alongside the ice of the North to crush the vipers of King's Landing."
POV: Ser Willas Tyrell (302 AC)
The main hall of Highgarden was immersed in the noisy sound of laughter, harp music, and the constant clinking of silver cups filled with Arbor wine. As happened on so many other days in the Reach, a grand and opulent banquet was being held to celebrate the conclusion of an idiotic tournament, organized for an even more insignificant and ornamental reason.
The Reach remained exactly as it had always been: a realm focused on silks, poetry, and knights who took pride in their shining armor that had never seen the true horror of a battlefield. However, turning my gaze to the official scroll that had arrived at my place at the table a few hours ago, I knew perfectly well that the time for tournaments and summer games had come to an abrupt end.
Looking around the hall, I noticed by the tense expressions and muffled whispers of the other lords and knights that the news of King's Landing's madness had also reached their ears.
As soon as the banquet was concluded, I immediately retired to the private council chambers of our house. I joined my family and Lord Renly Baratheon—who, due to his mystical and political proximity to us, was already considered practically a member of House Tyrell.
Renly paced back and forth across the room with long, nervous strides, his hands gesturing in the air while his Rainbow Guard stood by the door with equally serious expressions. My father, Mace Tyrell, copied the same movement on the other side of the room, his immense belly shaking beneath his green velvet robes as he muttered incomprehensible words.
"How could Catelyn Tully be so monumentally insane?!" Renly stormed, slamming his fist against the wall. "Locking up the fucking Silent Wolf?! Accusing Ned Stark of high treason before the entire realm?! I left the capital shortly after my brother Robert's death because the atmosphere of that court was suffocating me, but I never imagined that woman would commit an act of pure political dementia! She signed the death warrant of the South!"
"That no longer matters at this moment, Renly," I intervened with my usual calm, adjusting my injured leg on the wooden support. "The focus now must be entirely on what House Tyrell will do in this war. We need to debate our tactical options with extreme caution."
"What do you mean debate, Willas?!" my father, Mace Tyrell, interrupted my reasoning with a surprisingly firm and thunderous voice that echoed through the room. "There is absolutely nothing to be debated here! Call our banners immediately and prepare our defenses for combat right here in our own territory! We know very well that many of the lesser lords of the Reach, driven by foolish ambitions or old resentments over our rise, will choose to side with the Southern crown and the Faith of the Seven in this dispute!"
I was surprised by my father's tone of authority. He turned to one of the servants at the door.
"Send an urgent raven to Lord Randyll Tarly demanding his immediate presence in Highgarden to organize our military vanguard. Randyll has a deep admiration for the military discipline of the North; he even sent his eldest son, Samwell, to the empire's industrial academies to learn to be a real man. And send official letters with our orders to the Florents and to the Hightowers in Oldtown!"
Mace Tyrell stopped speaking abruptly, noticing that the entire room had plunged into absolute silence. Loras and I stared at him with wide eyes of surprise at his rustic and unhesitating determination.
"What is it?" my father asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Loras cleared his throat, exchanging a quick glance with me before replying.
"Nothing, father... it's just that... well, forget it. We will do exactly what you just ordered. Our vanguard will be ready."
I approached my father as soon as the other lords left the room, curious about his very resolute stance.
"Why this so absolute decision with no room for negotiations with King's Landing, father?" I asked gently.
Mace Tyrell sighed deeply, sitting in his immense carved chair and looking at me with a seriousness he rarely displayed in public.
"My dear daughter, Margaery, is the Empress of the North, Willas," he explained in a low voice. "She sends me letters constantly through the empire's secure communication channels. Margaery has already reported to me in minute detail the real extent of the technological, military, and elemental strength that the Winter Throne possesses. In addition, your grandmother, Olenna, who currently lives in the court of Winterfell as one of the general advisors of the empire, sent me a very short and direct warning: Emperor Arawyn has absolutely no plans for clemency or mercy toward his enemies in this campaign."
He placed his heavy hands on my shoulders.
"A true noble of a great house lives and dies by the validity of his written word, my son. If we have forged an alliance of blood with the North, we are their allies until the bitter end, no matter how hard the storm shakes our garden."
Faced with those wise words filled with an ancestral pragmatism from my father, I realized that the matter was completely resolved. Sometimes, amidst the aristocratic routine, I tended to forget that Mace Tyrell was by no means the complete idiot that my grandmother Olenna used to paint in her sharp jokes at court. When living with so many other mediocre and impressionable Southern lords, it became evident that my father still possessed all the upbringing, dignity, and protective instincts of a Great House heir. He simply paled when compared to the almost legendary and cruel astuteness of the Queen of Thorns... but he knew exactly when steel needed to be drawn to protect his children.
POV: Prince Oberyn Martell (302 AC)
I walked with slow, fluid steps through the beautiful sandstone corridors of Sunspear, my yellow and orange silk robes fluttering gently with the warm breeze coming from the Sea of Dorne. I was heading toward the private chambers of my older brother, Doran Martell.
Upon crossing the portal of the council chamber, I immediately realized that I was, as usual in my life of excesses, the last to arrive for the extraordinary meeting.
"I beg forgiveness for my lateness, brother," I declared with a sly smile, bowing my head dramatically as I entered the heated room. "I had some matters of a purely personal nature that required my full attention at the city's springs. But I see that our illustrious family meeting is already properly assembled."
My brother Doran remained seated in his immense padded wheelchair, his gout-deformed leg covered by heavy cloaks. Behind him, like a silent and immutable shadow, rose the imposing figure of Areo Hotah, holding his heavy steel battle-axe against his chest. My two beautiful nieces, Rhaenys Targaryen and Arianne Martell, were positioned near the map table.
I approached them, greeting each with a tender kiss on the cheek, and offered a respectful nod of the head to Ser Oswell Whent—the veteran knight who, since the fall of the old dynasty, acted as the tireless guardian and protective shadow of my niece Rhaenys in Sunspear.
"And so, brother?" I asked, crossing my arms and leaning my back against one of the stone columns. "Are our ten thousand Dornish spearmen already properly positioned and ready to march northward? The South is imploding, and we have blood to claim."
The one who answered my question was not my brother, but Rhaenys. Elia's daughter took a step forward, her geographic dark eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity while her right hand rested subtly on the golden pommel of her slender sword—the legendary *Dark Sister*, the Valyrian steel sword of Queen Visenya, which Arawyn had rescued from the shadows and handed to her as a birthright.
"No, uncle Oberyn..." Rhaenys shot back, her voice laden with a distilled venom and an unmistakable disdain as she looked at Doran. "It seems the Lord of Sunspear has once again completely forgotten the real meaning of the words duty and honor. He prefers to remain stagnant in his water gardens rather than move a single Dornish soldier to war."
I felt the tension in the room reach dangerous levels. I knew Rhaenys's explosive temperament perfectly well; she had inherited the indomitable determination of the Targaryens and the hot blood of the Martells.
"Rhaenys, my dear niece..." Doran replied with his usual low, tired, and drawling voice, without showing any change in his stern countenance. "There are dozens of political gears and tactical factors involved in this campaign that your youth and impulsiveness are simply not capable of understanding at this moment. Dorne must act with absolute caution if it wants to survive what is to come."
"I understand the situation perfectly well, uncle Doran!" Rhaenys countered sharply, slamming her hand against the map table. "But it seems it is you who are deliberately confusing strategic caution with the purest and most cowardly omission!"
I approached the table, fixing my gaze directly on my older brother. Rhaenys's tone found an echo in my own discontent with his eternal hesitations.
"Do you truly not plan to send our troops into combat, Doran?" I questioned, my voice abandoning its previous playful tone and assuming a cutting seriousness. "Where is the honor of House Martell? It was the Empire of the North that extended its hand to us when the world collapsed; it was Emperor Arawyn who saved our sister Elia from a brutal death at the hands of the Lannisters' dogs, offering her a safe haven, dignity, and magical protection in his winter lands for the past decades! We owe everything to the wolves."
"I know perfectly well of our blood debts, Oberyn," Doran answered, sighing tiredly while drumming his deformed fingers on the arm of his chair. "And I will make sure to mobilize our spearmen. But I need to see first which of the Southern factions will take the real advantage in this initial battle before committing my people's lives definitively."
Rhaenys let out a short, cold laugh, full of derision.
"Uncle Doran... I know you consider yourself the most intelligent and calculating man in all the Seven Kingdoms, but please, do not treat us like complete fools in this room," she declared, leaning over the table. "The one marching through the Neck at this very moment is the entirety of the Northern army. They carry weapons and armor that defy the very understanding of Southern science. The Empire of Winter could be facing the entirety of all the world's combined armies at the same time, and they would still maintain an absolute military advantage in this war! You are not being honest with us. You are hiding something from Dorne."
I observed my brother's countenance in silence. Rhaenys was entirely right. Doran Martell had been acting evasively for months, keeping hidden secrets and correspondences locked under seven keys that not even I was able to intercept. Ever since the news about the whereabouts and movements of the remaining forces in the East began to arrive, his old plans seemed to have undergone deep alterations in the darkness. But no one would be able to hide the truth forever; the whispers about the emergence of three legitimate dragons in the East had already begun to spread like wildfire through the ports of Dorne, and Rhaenys herself had confirmed to me that Emperor Arawyn already had total knowledge of the existence of those winged beasts through his visions.
To break the uncomfortable silence of the room, I decided to shift the focus to an immediate military matter.
"And what of young Roderick?" I asked Rhaenys, crossing my arms.
I saw a genuine glimpse of concern and pride shape my niece's dark eyes for a brief moment before she answered.
"He is obviously already marching in the vanguard of the army alongside Robb Stark, uncle Oberyn," Rhaenys announced. "After all, a Dustin of Barrowton always promptly answers a Stark's call when the drums of war begin to sound in the North.
Even if we have had little physical contact with him over the years due to the geographical distance, Roderick is still the legitimate son of our beloved sister Elia. He carries our warrior blood in his veins."
Doran let out a murmur of disdain from his wheelchair, shaking his head deprecatingly.
"Why should we care so much about the fate of that Dustin boy? He is just a..."
"He is our blood, Doran!" I interrupted his sentence brutally, sustaining my stern and inflamed gaze against my brother until he turned his eyes away in discomfort. "And you seem to be forgetting with alarming frequency the real importance of our family's blood."
Doran remained silent for a long time, knowing he wouldn't be able to win that moral argument against me and Rhaenys at the same time. He finally relented, making a gesture of capitulation with his hand toward Areo Hotah.
"Very well... let it be as you so loudly clamor," Doran ordered with a resigned voice. "Prepare the ten thousand Dornish spearmen immediately and initiate a series of coordinated and aggressive attacks against the lands of the Dornish Marches. I want you to cause the highest level of chaos, destruction, and logistical problems possible for the lords of the Stormlands, preventing them from sending any military reinforcement to support the Tully Queen in King's Landing."
Rhaenys smiled predatorily upon hearing the order. I turned to her, curious about the details of the Northern forces descending from beyond the Wall under the command of my nephew-in-law Aemon Targaryen.
"Do you know if the Sword of the Morning will fight in this campaign, my niece?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, uncle Oberyn," Rhaenys replied with enthusiasm, touching the pommel of her Valyrian steel blade. "Ser Arthur Dayne has already left his garrison on the other side of the Wall with my brother Aemon. He is coming down toward the South leading a small but lethal portion of the standing army of the Kingdom of the Lands Beyond the Wall."
Arianne Martell, who until then had remained in absolute silence analyzing the tactical map, took a step forward, her eyes gleaming with aristocratic curiosity upon hearing about Aemon and his kingdom.
"Will there be giants marching alongside this force from the far north, cousin Rhaenys?" Arianne asked, fascinated by the legends.
"No, Arianne... the colossal giants are already integrated directly into Robb Stark's main army," Rhaenys explained, pointing to the map. "And by the schedule and the runic marching speed they maintain, Robb's vanguards must be crossing the borders of the Twins exactly about now."
Arianne frowned, confused, looking at the marking of House Frey's castle on the map of the Riverlands.
"The Twins?" the heiress of Dorne questioned, thoughtfully. "But that makes no sense from a logistical standpoint, cousin. If their ultimate goal is to march directly against King's Landing, the Northmen could have simply followed a straight line through the Kingsroad, bypassing the Trident without the need to force a passage through Walder Frey's castle, correct? Why change the route?"
Rhaenys shrugged, though her cold smile indicated that she understood the rawness behind that imperial decision.
"I don't know the fine strategic details either, Arianne... but I can perfectly imagine that this specific route is a direct order from Emperor Arawyn himself. That old weasel of the Twins must have some ancient debt to pay to the Winter Throne, and the wolves will leave no loose ends behind their backs before swallowing the South once and for all."
I rose from the oak chair, stretching my muscles and feeling the adrenaline of imminent combat circulate through my veins with full force.
"Well... then it is past time to prepare our weapons for the slaughter," I declared, looking at Rhaenys. "Will you join us in the vanguard of the Dornish spearmen in the Marches, my niece?"
"And miss the opportunity to see this court of King's Landing bleed for its sins against my family? Never, uncle Oberyn," Rhaenys replied with a fierce determination, her hand gripping Dark Sister's hilt tightly enough to make her knuckles whiten. "I will make sure to ensure that the blade that belonged to Queen Visenya drinks the blood of our enemies once more after so many decades of silence in the darkness."
"Excellent," I let out a genuine and enthusiastic laugh. "Watching you and Arthur Dayne fight on a true battlefield was always a spectacle I wanted to witness up close. That is, of course, assuming that the man considered the best swordsman in all the mortal world has managed to maintain the entirety of his legendary strength after spending so many years isolated in the cold of the North."
Rhaenys looked at me askance, and the enigmatic and absolute smile that shaped her Targaryen lips was enough to make my Dornish arrogance falter for a brief instant of pure respect.
"Ah, do not worry about that, uncle Oberyn... you understood the situation completely wrong," she whispered, walking toward the exit of the solar alongside Ser Oswell. "The extreme cold of the North was not able to blunt Arthur Dayne's blade or reflexes in the slightest. Quite the contrary... now that he has been properly enhanced by combat runes and the imperial winter elemental magic, the Sword of the Morning has become something infinitely more powerful, lethal, and devastating than any knight this world has ever dared to witness in all of human history."
I stood frozen in the center of the room for a few seconds, having nothing to answer in the face of that solemn revelation. My mind simply was not capable of conceiving the idea of a warrior of Arthur Dayne's legendary caliber operating at an even higher level of power than the one that made him a myth in Westeros... but coming from the supernatural creations of that cursed Emperor of the North, I knew perfectly well that every word of Rhaenys was the purest and most terrifying truth. The Southern winter would be bloody.